Date: Tue, 25 Apr 2006 19:06:16 -0400
From: Chris Creamer
Subject: Tyler series 10
This is Tyler Graham, sitting in the driver's seat of his Mercury. His
girlfriend, Sara, is in the passenger's seat. The car...isn't moving.
They're talking.
They never talk.
"People are talking, Tyler." She speaks and stares traight ahead, not
having the strength or the interest to look him in the eyes. Not having the
honesty to do so. She speaks with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. "I
heard...Jake and Kyle...raped you."
"Sara--"
"You wanna tell me how that happens? How does a guy rape another guy?"
"It wasn't like that."
"And it wouldn't have to be. If you told me the truth, we..."
"We what?"
Sara looks away. "Nothing."
"Something," Tyler says. "You're never this quiet. Something's wrong and I
want to help. That's...that's why we're dating isn't it?"
"You tell me," she replies. "I thought we had something. And then I hear
the wrestling team rapes you because you're fu" She seems to struggle
getting the words out. Like some recovering stroke victim. "...fuhhh..."
"Fucking," Tyler says, feeling a new species of annoyed. "Having
sex. Makin' whoopee. Inserting rod A into slot B. Fucking, Sara, is that so
Goddamn hard to say?"
Sara turns back to him. Her lips quiver and her cheeks turn a faint red. A
tear streams out of one eye.
"It would be," she whispers. "If you were doing it to me."
Tyler's eyebrows angle sharply. "What are you talking about?"
"You and John," she says and stares at the airbag compartment, flush
against the dashboard "You're not just studying together, are you? He's not
at your house every night because he wants the answers to the Econ test, is
he?"
Tyler sighs and lets his head fall back on the headrest. "Jesus, is that
what this is? You think the wrestling thing and John spending time with me
are related--"
"Yes--"
"And that John is somehow my A-number-one loverboy?"
Tyler looks at her with a raised eyebrow. She wipes away some more
tears. And says "yes."
Tyler rolls his eyes and looks at the ceiling and grumbles. More
annoyance. "Oh my God, this is a nightmare."
"Ty, we've known each other since the third grade, we've dated since eighth
grade. Christ...you were my first at Homecoming last year. Just...tell
me. Tell me if I'm being crazy or if its true."
"If what's true?" he asks, staring at the ceiling, eyes still closed.
"If you're gay," she says. She speaks without hate, without malice. She
just sounds like she wants the truth. Innocent enough. "And if you've been
having sex with John. And how long you intended to keep it from me."
Tyler looks at her again. Jaw firmly clenched, eyebrows angled again. This
is his football face, the one he uses when he's about to make a China
Syndrome out of some poor receiver from the other team.
"I think you should go," he says, glib, after a moment.
Sara scowls and slaps him. Her lips start quivering again, and she holds
herself together long enough for this:
"I thought you were better than this." And then...she cracks and speaks
through teary eyes and a red face:
"Better than lying--especially to me. And you're not even denying it?!
Jesus, Tyler, all I want is an answer!"
"You already fuckin know it, Sara, so don't try that shit with me!" Tyler
shoots rights back. In the back of his mind, Tyler considers. This is the
first big argument we've ever had. Probably the last...
And as quickly as he had exploded, he shut up and his eyes went back to the
steering wheel. In the periphery of his vision, he sees the rest of the
parking lot is empty, except for Sara's Caddy next to his. And a lone
Camaro at the far end, parked under a dying maple. Tyler sighs and his
attention goes back to Sara.
She's still tearful. Waiting.
"Just...please...tell me, Tyler. I need to know."
He bows his head.
"Yes."
He hears a single sniffle. And then the door opening. Sara gathering her
things--gym bag, bookbag. He almost feels the car getting lighter with
Sara's 145 pounds not taking up space.
Tyler lays his head against the curvature of the steering wheel. Hears Sara
speaking, uneasy and quivering:
"Then we're done."
Then she closes the door. The driver's door on her rustbucket Caddy--"Betsy"
she calls it--creaks open. Tyler hears Betsy groan to life a moment later
and rocket out of the parking lot.
He looks up to see a man in baggy chinos and a white Oxford walking towards
him, and lays his head back against the steering wheel. As he does, he
feels an exhausted shudder of tears welling inside. Startled at first, it
soon passes.
And for the first time in years, Tyler cries.